Tomorrow is Canada Day. I’m not normally a rah, rah kind of a gal about such things but this year I’m thanking my lucky stars to be a Canadian. Of course topping the list of reasons why is the Brexit vote in the U.K. and the Trumpeting Idiot that is The Donald in the U.S. Okay, I’m not enamored with Justin these days, but I’d rather have him than any of the other idiots (or ejits, as Gill would say) running the asylums elsewhere.
I checked in the cupboards to see if I still have any of the Canada Day decorations that I sent Gill last year. I do! Tiny flags to go in the cake or cupcakes I will make (that in itself is an extraordinary event — without Gill here to egg me on, I bake and cook nothing I don’t have to.) I also have some napkins and, if I dig deep enough in the freezer, I suspect I’ll find lurking there (once I get past the dead pet birds in Dove boxes that constitute The Morgue portion of the freezer) some ice cream — vanilla with a red maple leaf in the centre. If it is too freezer-burned (and it likely will be) I might even make the extraordinary trip to buy more. It’s terrible ice cream, but I feel it’s worth supporting any bit of Canadian culture I can find. Short of catching one of the on-campus beavers to use for a table centerpiece, I’m running out of plausible options.
My actual plans for the big day are somewhat up in the air. I do have a hair appointment in the morning (the salon owner is giving her stylists the next day, Saturday, off so they can enjoy an entire weekend without interruption.) Then, with my hair freshly coiffed, I’ll take myself for a swim at the pool across the street, thus negating the money and time spent in the salon. Oh, well…it’s really only covering up my roots that I care about. I’d tell the stylist to just color it and then I’d let it dry on my way home, but it has been my experience that they are easily offended by that request. I get it, they want to make the money a ‘styling’ gets. They’re nice people so I humor them.
I could go to campus to watch the huge fireworks display. Trouble is, it begins at 10:00 p.m. That is normally my bedtime and since I’ve already stayed up past 10 a couple of times this past week, I’ll forego the temptation this time. Besides, if I stand on a tippy ladder, I can see the fireworks from my deck…after toasting our country with a lovely gin and tonic. If I don’t fall and break my hip, it will be a worthwhile experience.
By the time Canada Day rolls around, I will also have a pooch in the house. I am dog sitting for my neighbors (for three weeks) while they travel to Vienna. Their puppy, a lovely, cuddly, but rambunctious brown lab, will keep me busy. It will be nice to have a dog in the house again after The Pig’s demise. I wonder if she likes gin and tonics. She certainly likes ice cream. Perhaps we can make our own party, our own ‘We’re Happy to Be Canadian’ celebration. I’m sure I can find a suitable hat for her and perhaps even a Canada Day Wonder Pooch costume. Hey, she’ll still look better than The Donald with his orange tan and weird blondish comb-over. Or better than Boris Johnson, the clown who used to run London and could be the new Prime Minister.
OMG! When I write that down, I truly think the dog with the Wonder Pooch costume could do a better job than either of those clowns.
Happy Canada Day, people! I have a feeling that, after the Brexit vote, Gill and her expat friends may be chartering a plane as we speak to return home for the next Canada Day.